


A One-Time Offer

by obstinatrix



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Mild D/s Overtones, Oral Sex, Roleplay, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 03:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10324196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: Watson appreciates all of Holmes's disguises.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For come_at_once @ LJ -- written speedily for a 24-hour challenge and therefore probably not my best work, disclaimer disclaimer etc.

Holmes was lounging in the parlour in a newly dishevelled suit when I made it back from my rounds to Baker Street, the fresh cold scent of February still lingering about my person. He looked up at me under his lashes, coy, as I stamped the mud from my boots, and I recognised his attitude immediately: this was a new disguise he was trying for the first time, and he wished to see my unprepared reaction. 

His eyes, silver-grey, were limned with kohl, which gave them the clear, watchful stillness of winter-frosted windows in a dark house. The pupils, I noted, were wide. I could not speak for the strength of the disguise: I would have known those eyes anywhere -- and the aspect, too, that Holmes had donned, his hips thrust slightly forward, the carriage of his body submissive, inviting. 

"Half a crown and you can pick your pleasure," Holmes said, in the airy East-End voice he affected so well. "That's a one-time only offer, guv; ask anyone." 

I felt the corners of my mouth tugging upward. It was not that there was anything ridiculous about his performance; on the contrary, he played this part, as he did every other, with absolute conviction. The sight of him like this, so entirely inhabiting his role, made my chest swell with admiration and love for him, this strange, brilliant man I had somehow been unable not to adore. And then, of course, there was the fact that I had seen him this way before, with some regularity, appealing to my baser instincts with his eyes wide and his fine hands reaching for me. 

I should kill any other man who said so, but Sherlock Holmes is quite the most shameless harlot, and he is mine, so I may name him for what he is. 

"One time only, is it?" I reached for him, letting my fingers curve against the sharp line of his jaw, and the way his lashes fluttered made my gut dip. "That's what you said the last time, boy -- or have you forgotten?" 

"Could I forget you, sir?" He nuzzled at my hand like a cat, mouth parting enough that I could see the wet insides of his lips, the curl of his tongue. He spoke still in his Docklands voice, but it was breathy now, and only half of that was the act alone, I knew. "Lad can have a favourite, can't he?" 

"Indeed," I told him, "and so may a gentleman. Let me look at you." 

I grasped him by the throat, not hard but firmly, and the move was well-calculated, it transpired, for I could feel his pulse beating beneath my palm and my own breath quickened with his as I held him, the fragile skin of his neck flushing under my hand. Slowly, I loosened my grip and let it slide upward, making a show of turning his face as if to inspect him. Holmes, I had found, loved to be admired like this, and when I brushed my thumb over the swell of his lower lip, he turned his face to nip at me, and then let me press inside, rubbing the thumbpad over his tongue and the crenellations of his molars. 

"Beautiful," I said. My voice stuck in my throat, looking at him, and he looked fiercely back with his silver eyes gone almost black with pupil, lax and captive in my hand, more willing than any East End rentboy. I swallowed, and watched the motion reflected in the bob of his long throat; felt the flutter of his tongue against my thumb. He was, I saw, awaiting my instruction now, and I had no intention of disappointing him. 

"On your knees," I said, and withdrew my hand, sharply enough that he half-fell, half-dropped into position, something like a mewl rising from him. He pressed his face to the burgeoning cockstand in my suit trousers without any urging from me, and then looked up at me through the fan of his lashes, one eyebrow quirked just enough that I was quite sure I was right; that he wanted this as much as I did: to be unmanned, positioned like a doll, entirely my plaything. The disguise was part of it, but part, too, was all my Holmes, and I shuddered as I grasped him by the crown of the head and pulled him against me, crowding myself against his mouth. 

"John --" His own voice, then, as he fumbled at my fly-buttons, and I closed my eyes a moment, breathing in his eagerness, feeling the stumbling pressure of his fingers as they unlaced my drawers and closed, cool, around the heated length of me. Holmes's hands were always cool, but his face was flushed pink across those magnificent cheekbones when I steeled myself to look again. 

"That's it," I breathed, for the sake only of saying something, and then groaned aloud as he pressed his cheek against my shaft sideways on, trapping me between his face and his palm. 

"John..." Dear God, but I loved the sound of my name spilling from that so-precise mouth, almost as much as I loved the sight of it parting around the crown of my prick, kissing the pearls of pre-ejaculate so that his lips came away glistening. A shiver wracked me, and my hand made a fist unconsciously in his sleek black hair, seeking purchase there. Too hard, surely, but he was mindless to it, tongue curling around my shaft, pressing beneath my foreskin, and when he caught my gaze, his mouth forced wide around my cockstand as it sank into his throat, I suddenly wanted nothing so much as my hands upon him, inside him. 

"God -- Holmes -- come here; up here --" 

I grasped at him, yanking at the collar of his meticulously-dishevelled ensemble, and he let me, gasping as I pulled him off me and up, backing him against the settee. His feet were unsteady on the carpet, but I seized him at the waist and shoulder and hefted him upright, and he gave up trying to move under his own power, throwing his arms around my neck and letting me kiss his open mouth. 

Holmes on his knees is one thing, but _kissing_ him -- I feel as if I might go right out of my head with it, the furious heat of his mouth and the feel of him pliant against me, opening for me, his sharp teeth under my tongue. I kissed him now and found I could not stop. I fair plundered his mouth, my hands seeking out the secret places in his garments where they could creep in to find his perfect skin, and he let me; clutched at me; my tongue thrust obscenely into his mouth and he sucked upon it wantonly. His hips beneath his trousers were narrow in my hands and he kicked at me in his haste to assist when I wrenched his clothes down his thighs, his legs fighting to part for me before the fabric would allow. 

But oh, there was my name again in his mouth: "John, John, John," panted into my ear, followed by the damp press of his lips against my throat. I rubbed at him with one hand, smoothing his flank as if soothing a fractious horse, and felt him arch into my arms like a bow, curving one knee about my hip. 

We were artless, now, all pretence forgotten, but it was often that way with us in those days, hot with the vigour of youth and the thrill of the chase. I hadn't the self-possession to disentangle myself long enough to fetch the hair-grease or petroleum jelly, and at any rate, he would not have let me. I wet two fingers in my mouth and he spread his thighs eagerly for the intrusion, groaning as I felt for his opening and pushed inside. He was blood hot, body clutching around my hand, and I felt him reach for me as I did what I could to fuck him like that, stroking at his hot insides, both of us panting for breath as much at the thought as the matter of it. 

"Holmes," I panted in his ear, "darling," and he thumbed at my cockstand and shuddered in my arms, frigging me clumsy and wrong-handed, grinding his prick into the hollow of my hip. My muscles were beginning to protest under his weight, but even that seemed somehow gratifying, and I let myself sink into the ache of it. Holmes's free hand pressed bruise-hard into my shoulder, fingers trembling, and I knew the moment his climax hit him even before I felt the heat of it on my skin. He was too loud, as ever, the little death tearing a cry from his throat, and I shushed him with my palm as he squeezed me reflexively hard, whole body tensing. 

"Darling," I said again, as I always did when reason was beyond me, "darling," and he kissed me as I spent in his hand, over and over until the spasm passed and I, finally, could kiss him back. 

Afterwards, when we straightened, the kohl from his disguise had smeared half across his face from my attentions; he looked, I thought, rather becomingly like a boy in a Persian mosaic, and I remembered, as if from long ago, what had begun this. I fumbled in my pocket and smiled at what I found there, catching his eye as I held it up. 

"What can I get," I asked him, "for a guinea?" 

He stifled a laugh, but straightened himself after a moment, and as if before my eyes I saw the Docklands renter reappear in his place as he reached for the coin and took it from me primly. "Wait and see, guv," he said, and winked.


End file.
